


The Unexpected Devolution of Dr. Frederick Chilton

by arochilton



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Are you confused and upset by the fact that Chilton is not in charge in the Red Dragon arc?, Are you wondering about possible theories regarding how this came to be?, Do you want sassmaster Frederick unleashing hell as we all expected him to?, This is my attempt to provide the fandom with all of that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:14:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4431356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arochilton/pseuds/arochilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place during the three year time skip montage seen in "The Great Red Dragon," Dr. Frederick Chilton focuses his efforts on reaping hell on Hannibal as well as establishing his career as an author on the topic of psychopaths and killers. However, the power he has worked hard to establish and maintain may not be as strong as he thinks it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Monster Cometh

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since I watched episode 3.08 at a special screening in Los Angeles on Thursday night, I have been repeatedly asking myself the same questions regarding Frederick Chilton, Alana Bloom, and the seemingly unimaginable switch of power: why did this happen and how did Chilton ever let his penchant for revenge and unethical therapy slip his grasp to become an author with dwindling success? To answer these questions, I have envisioned a number of theories which are combined into this fic. In my mind, the administrative change the BSHCI experiences did not happen immediately after Hannibal Lecter came into custody; rather, it occurred almost directly before “The Great Red Dragon” takes place due to a series of possible events that will be examined. This fic is also a gratuitous attempt to explore something I always assumed would be inevitable that was snatched away without a warning or an explanation. So if what you seek, as I do, is Esparza Chilton being his pretentious self face-to-face with Hannibal, you’ve come to the right place.

dev·o·lu·tion

( _noun_ )

the transfer or delegation of power to a lower level.

OR

descent or degeneration to a lower or worse state.

 

 

**

 

 

 

The shrill sound of a ringing phone invades the dull, quiet air surrounding Dr. Frederick Chilton’s dreams. The man’s eyes flutter open, his mind heavy with sleep. Frederick does not receive phone calls often, especially not late at night such as this. The man breathes out a long sigh and lets the phone continue to ring for several seconds as he pushes himself to the brink of alertness. He can sometimes be a restless sleeper, although the nightmares he would never admit he occasionally experiences are far less common than they used to be. However, up until a minute ago he had been enjoying himself in the confines of rest. 

Expecting the phone call to be an ad or a wrong number dial, Frederick leans over the nightstand next to his bed, checking the clock as he does so— _3:46 A.M._ , it reads—and feels his heart pound hard inside his chest as he reads the caller ID.

_ Crawford, Jack. _

Somewhere inside of him, Frederick immediately knows what’s going on. He’s been waiting for this call. For a second, he calculates figures in his mind, tries to ensure that this isn’t a self-indulging dream. Almost instantly, he determines that he knows when the hell he is awake and when the hell he is not. With a surging sensation in his heart, Frederick grabs his dentures off the nightstand, pulls them out of their case, and stuffs them into his mouth, delighting in the popping sound as they align in their proper position. It has become a habit that he takes them out when he sleeps. The feeling is more comfortable, and Frederick Chilton is not a man to consider denying himself the luxury of comfort. He reaches for the phone, presses talk, and breathes out “Hello?” 

“Dr. Chilton,” Jack’s voice is labored and tired, but edged with something Frederick registers as relief.He can’t imagine exactly what Jack and the others have been up to, since the updates Alana Bloom has conveyed have all been blunt and vague. “We caught him.”

Frederick flinches at first, an involuntarily action. He wanted to be the one to catch the man. However, it’s been clear ever since Will Graham awoke from his coma that the task would be out of Frederick’s hands. Really, though, it’s no matter. He owns the title, and he owns the story. He’ll scavenge for details when he can. 

“We’re leaving the Quantico lab and are en route to your hospital,” Jack continues. “Can you be there in an hour and a half, give or take a few?”

“Of course,” Frederick replies, mouth twisted into a smirk. Any lingering trace of fatigue in his body has been replaced by genuine adrenaline and bursts of pride that flood his chest and bring an almost dizzying feeling to his body.

“See you then,” Jack concludes. There’s a moment of silence before the line goes dead. Frederick puts the phone down, hopping to his feet. He changes into a silver striped polo, outlined with a patterned tie and a dark blue blazer. He glances at his hands as he clips the gold tie bar to his chest. They are shaking slightly due to the rushes of energy bursting through the lean man’s frame.

Frederick flips on a light switch, standing in front of the mirror. Without facial makeup, the scar rests a deep red shade upon his cheek, the depth of its presence more visible. His face appears to drip downward as if being pulled by an invisible lever. His left eye stares eerily at him, empty as it appears. Frederick slides the contact into his eye, allowing it to disguise the blank whiteness, quickly melding to give the appearance of a pale green iris identical to his right eye. 

Frederick is used to this routine, as he conveyed to Mason Verger several weeks ago. However, he is in a rush this time, his mind urging him to hurry, and even he who seeks perfection in all things regarding himself dabs the makeup on his cheek as quickly as possible. When applied, the scar is still slightly visible, tinged a reddish-pink, and Frederick wears it proudly upon his face. 

The man takes a moment to glance over his appearance in the mirror, a smug smile slicing across his features. He is pleased with his image, of course, but at this moment, nothing on earth could break the energized confidence radiating throughout his skin. It surges with every breath he takes, and his smirk is so wide now that Frederick swears he can feel his scar twinge with protest; however, he does not stop his mouth from curling upwards.

The energy he exhibits remains a part of his composure as he drives to the asylum. He makes this trip every day, knowing the route by heart, which is useful because Frederick is not exactly entirely focused on driving at this time. His hands are resting on the steering wheel and are fidgeting slightly and his foot is pushing against the gas pedal, but his mind is elsewhere. He recalls conversations with Hannibal Lecter about various methods of unethical psychiatry, and Frederick feels an almost childlike sensation of joy tickle his spine as he recognizes his ability to give the man a literal taste of his own medicine. He envisions orderlies strapping the man to a chair as Frederick shoves needles into his hands, getting into the mind of the Chesapeake Ripper in a way that nobody ever has. He lets his mind paint a portrait of Hannibal sitting on the cot in his cell, Frederick watching him smugly from his office via the cameras, delighting in the man’s presence in the cell where he belongs. Frederick does not think about the hell Hannibal put him through; rather, he only maintains proceedings about the price the prisoner must now pay for it.

A classical music station on the car radio is playing Mozart’s _Exsultate Jubilate Alleluja_. Frederick turns up the volume and lets the singer’s voice fill his ears as the streets and buildings whiz past him in blurs of light. The song calms him, helps him concentrate, and also fits his mood in a way he can hardly explain. 

He also considers an idea that buzzes his skull the same way a glass of alcohol might. Ever since he copyrighted the name “Hannibal the Cannibal,” Frederick has stood by the knowledge that he is the only person who can feasibly write a book about the man and his murders. There is no way in hell he will let Freddie Lounds into his hospital to conduct an interview with the man and have her subsequently write an abhorrent book. No, this is Frederick’s responsibility. He is the soon-to-be inmate’s psychiatrist and his keeper. 

As he drives, he dreams up certain exact sentences and even specific passages he is sure to store away in his brain so that he may write them down later. Of course, he knows now that in order to sell books, he will need to embellish the story. While the tale of a secret cannibal psychiatrist feeding meat made of victims to his dinner party guests is already guaranteed to sell thousands of copies (not to mention the inescapable hype surrounding the capture of the Ripper himself), Frederick knows that with the entire story under his control, he needs to take the initiative and make the book as involved and interesting as possible. Perhaps he will include a chapter detailing that he himself knew from the beginning what Hannibal was, how he forced down meals (before he lost his carnivorous abilities) and questioned his own morals while doing it...Frederick has always been one to meld and stretch the truth, sidestepping over reality and falling cleanly upon tiny castles of fibs and falsehoods in order to make himself appear better, more credible, and more worthy. He knows that this book will bring him fame and help reestablish his reputation after Hannibal Lecter’s attempt to demolish it; Frederick’s future more or less depends on it and its inevitable success.

A faint glimpse of early sunlight illuminates the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Frederick parks in front, as he normally does, and steps out of his car to wait for the FBI vans to haul in his precious cargo. It is snowing, and cold white flakes settle into Frederick’s hair as he walks back and forth to keep his muscles active. He does not mind the cold, and he watches his breath turn to mist as it escapes from between his lips.

Several reporters and news trucks have arrived at the site. Somehow the word has gotten out already and hype has spread. Frederick tries to shoo them away, but an interviewer asks him how he feels about the fact that the Chesapeake Ripper is finally going to be in the asylum. As much as Frederick despises media such as this, he does not deny himself the opportunity to talk about himself. He relates to the interviewer that he is pleased that the monster is finally contained, and tells her that with Hannibal under his care, the world can rest easy knowing that the cannibal is locked up. He also drops several hints about his new book, knowing that any publicity surrounding it is beneficial.

When the FBI vehicles come into view, Frederick stands alone and tall, his breath hitching in his throat. There is something beyond satisfying at being so close to the very thing a person has desired for so long. The vans pull to a stop, and Jack Crawford steps out of the first, quickly shutting the door as he approaches Frederick. The man looks even more withered than he has of late; however, he is content rather than stressed.

“It’s good to see you, Dr. Chilton,” Jack says, grasping Frederick’s hand in a relieved handshake. “Especially under these circumstances.”

Frederick is in even less of a mood for polite small talk than he normally is. He nods, eyes flickering to the vehicles, wondering which one Hannibal is in. “How did you get him into custody?” he asks, envisioning a bloody fight. “Is he conscious?”

“He surrendered, actually,” Jack tells him.

Frederick feels his face contort into an expression of surprise. For a second, he considers that Jack is joking. “You are playing me,” the psychiatrist says as a statement rather than a question.

Jack is amused by this perception and he stifles a chuckle. “Not at all, doctor. He came willingly. I heard him say something to Will about always knowing where to find him. Though I expect that Will is going to want to be as far away from him as possible.”

“I see,” Frederick muses, eyes narrowed. “Well, he’s under my care now.”

“At last,” Jack agrees. “The real Chesapeake Ripper.”

Frederick isn’t sure whether to perceive this comment as an insult to his own competence. He does not seek to tarnish his mood, so he simply ignores the remark and turns his attention to the FBI vans, the first of which is now being unloaded.

Frederick feels his heart pounding quickly in his chest as Hannibal Lecter is ushered outside. His wrists are cuffed, his hair shaggy. _Finally the monster cometh_ , Frederick thinks to himself as the prisoner lifts his head towards the sky, tasting the air. He tilts his head a bit at the clicking of news cameras. Hannibal is not at all bothered by his capture, which is marked by his calm, courteous demeanor that is very close in line with that which the man has always exhibited. It has been a long time since Frederick has laid eyes on Hannibal Lecter, and he is grateful that this is the scenario in which the two of them are finally reintroduced. Hannibal looks around for a moment, surveying the scene in front of the hospital, before his head turns to a proper angle for his eyes to rest upon Frederick Chilton.

“Hannibal,” Frederick states, attempting to hide his grin but utterly and completely failing. His white teeth flash inside the dark forest of his beard. Frederick does not care that Hannibal can visibly perceive the joy radiating off of him. All he cares about is what is forthcoming.

“Ah, Frederick,” Hannibal nods towards the administrator. “I will admit, I was not sure that you would still be alive. They did quite a number on your face, I see. You are lucky. There are others in this world who might have been denied the opportunity of a normal, functioning face.”

Frederick has a small but powerful urge to smear his own makeup off, remove his contact, and pop his teeth out, but instead he holds himself together. He fumes silently, eyes narrowed.

“Don’t talk,” one of the FBI attendants tells Hannibal, who looks down at him with a bemused expression. 

“Don’t talk,” Frederick echoes in an angry snap. He takes several steps forward so that he is standing in front of Hannibal. He lifts his head and stares into the man’s eyes. “Understand this, Hannibal. You are my prisoner in my hospital. You are also my patient. You are going to rot in your cell. One day you will wake up and see that you have become an old man, yet the walls around you will not have aged a day.”

 Hannibal’s face is one of a slightly amused manner, which does nothing but infuriate Frederick more.

“You have hell to pay, Hannibal, and a lifetime of it coming to you.” Frederick does not let Hannibal’s facial expressions faze him. Instead, Frederick’s own face turns into a prideful banner of pure bliss, a smirk dominating his features and forcing him to stand tall and proud in this first of many face offs against his enemy, his nemesis, his prisoner.


	2. The Monster's Lair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact (and a driving motivator for this fic): if you watch Alana's scene with Hannibal in the basement, it is truly as if they have not spoken in several years (or if they have, only on occasion).

In two months’ time, Frederick Chilton has gotten no deeper into Hannibal Lecter’s mind than a dog might when attempting to dig up a bone buried under layers of firm, rocky terrain. Try as it might to uncover the promise of taste and success, even its sharp claws cannot breach the hardness of the earth, and the bone remains covered. When an event such as this occurs, the dog would never blame itself for the misfortunate; rather, if the dog thought anything at all, it would perceive the problem as the earth’s own flaw. Likewise, Frederick would never equate the impossibility of Hannibal’s mind to failure on Frederick’s own part. Despite the many failures he has gone through in his life, Frederick would never admit to their existence, and if asked, he would conclude that the words “Frederick Chilton” do not belong anywhere near the word “failure.”

During therapy sessions, Hannibal simply zones out, ignoring Frederick’s taunts and jabs, seeming to retreat into his own mind, and only speaking when he makes an occasional snarky comment about Frederick’s cognitive or psychiatric abilities. Frederick always wishes he had the ability to know what Hannibal thinks about during these times when he is as unresponsive as if the psychiatrist is not even sitting opposite him. Frederick is no stranger to such behavior; Will Graham performed similar theatrics when he was locked up as well. In fact, Frederick has made several notes regarding the similarities in behavior between the two of them.

In spite of this roadblock, Frederick has not been kind to Hannibal in any manner. How could he be, after Frederick is now responsible for the treatment of the man who tarnished his name and was indirectly accountable for his near death? No, Frederick has taken to giving him hell, denying him privileges, and consistently reminding him of his place in the asylum. Of course, Hannibal hasn’t seemed bothered by any of these attempts, his nonchalant aura never fading as he plays right back with Frederick, constantly using every possible opportunity to poke at Frederick’s ego or insult his intelligence. 

Every day has become a wonderful routine. Frederick can still hardly believe sometimes that Hannibal Lecter is finally in his hospital, especially after all the shit Frederick has been put through and all the revenge tactics he dreamed up. The thought of Hannibal’s imprisonment when Frederick wakes up instantly starts his day off well. After he eats breakfast, Frederick drives to the asylum. His mind often wanders to that early morning trip to his building when Hannibal Lecter was first caught. It is an encounter he often likes to revisit. Once Frederick arrives at the hospital each morning, he checks up on the orderlies, making sure they have all arrived. He does not like to involve himself with them unless he has to, but sometimes the occasional employee will slack off. Frederick never makes any trips down to the basement to see Hannibal in his cell. He spends the majority of his time watching him on the cameras rather than visiting him personally. Frederick has therapy sessions with Hannibal twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays. Most of the necessity for these is for the purposes of the book.

The writing of Frederick’s book, in his own not-so-humble opinion, is going extremely well. He has taken even more liberties with the story than he was planning to, and on some levels _Hannibal the Cannibal_ will be more of an autobiography of his own personal hierarchy over Hannibal than an actual story or analysis of the cannibal’s fascinating mind. Because of a lack of cooperation on Hannibal’s part, Frederick has made some conclusions and guesses about Hannibal’s mind and thoughts. His book will sell regardless; besides, Frederick knows that truth is often more or less dull. He wants fame because of himself and his feats and current power and triumph over Hannibal Lecter, not because of a straightforward retelling of the boring truth.

Another thing Frederick has been forced to deal with is visitors. As expected, Freddie Lounds turns up every few weeks begging for interviews with the inmate. The first several times she trespassed, Frederick had to personally shoo her away from the asylum, but now his employees recognize her face and usher her out before she can even walk past Frederick’s office. She is beyond aggravated that Frederick is the one writing the book about Hannibal, and he once heard her mumble under her breath, “At least my book would be about the man himself.”

Several other lesser known journalists and bloggers have also come into Frederick’s office pleading for one-on-one meetings with Hannibal. Frederick scoffs at their feeble attempts to use his prisoner to jumpstart their careers—which, in Frederick’s opinion, are already destined to be doomed. One young online journalist, who could not have been more than a year out of high school, was caught trying to sneak past security without a visitor’s badge. Frederick sat the young man down in his office, attacking him with insults left and right. Frederick then handed him one of his own cards. “If you’re so interested to learn about Hannibal,” the administrator noted. “Then you can read my upcoming book for all the knowledge you ever need to know.”

And then there is the problem of Alana Bloom. Since she was a crucial part in the capturing of Hannibal Lecter, and since Frederick has known her for years, he does not have the ability to simply kick her out of the asylum. However, he has been able to keep her at bay. She does not visit Hannibal, and Frederick has urged her not to on more than one occasion. He knows about the past affair between the two of them, of course, and because of this, she is an interesting topic in _Hannibal the Cannibal_. 

Frederick does not like Alana. He can honestly say that he never has, but then again, Frederick does not really like anyone. His own ideals and mannerisms clash with hers, and the two have never been able to see eye to eye.  In addition, Alana knows things about Frederick that he always refuses to admit, such as his steadfast convictions that the Ripper was Abel Gideon and subsequently Will Graham. The insults he threw at her in the hospital after her window escapade were all true, in his opinion at least. If Frederick can help it, she will never step foot near Hannibal’s cell. Alana can do just fine working as a psychiatrist for casual patients while Frederick is in charge of the monster.

Speaking of the monster, Hannibal poses his own plate of issues. Frederick still feels a lurch of pride in his chest every time he sees the man in his prison jumpsuit rather than the luxurious clothes he once donned so lavishly. Once, Frederick would have said that the two of them were alike in some ways. That was before Hannibal took those similarities and forced Frederick down a path of hell.

Now, sitting across from Hannibal in the therapy room, peering at the man behind the bars, Frederick notices the physical changes in him. Frederick has taken away his dining privileges, meaning that Hannibal is forced to eat scraps of prison food that he mentions take a toll on his stomach since he is so used to rich, fine food. Frederick sees now that the lack of balanced nutrition has caused Hannibal’s skin to tinge a bit sallow, the thinning in his face evident. Frederick suppresses a smirk at the power he possesses.

“So, Hannibal,” Frederick begins, tapping his pen rhythmically against the clipboard resting on his lap. “Are you going to cooperate today, or is there any point in even attempting a therapy session?”

Hannibal tilts his head to the side. “If we did not have therapy sessions, Frederick, how else would you fuel your ego, inflamed as it is from forging custody of the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Frederick bristles at the use of his first name in this context. Even though he is used to getting absolutely no respect from his prisoners, and none even from fellow psychiatrists who are his academic equals and inferiors (he is convinced that they are all his inferiors), the continued ignorance of his doctoral title sets his teeth on edge. Hannibal Lecter may be a doctor of note too, but he is locked up in a state institution, making him lower in status.

Hannibal notices the locking of Frederick’s jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. These quirks seem to amuse him further. “Do you really expect me to refer to you by your undeserved title, Frederick? You and I both know that although you may be an established psychiatrist, your credentials are not exactly what you claim them to be.”

Frederick fakes a cough and ignores the jeer. He picks up his clipboard, pretending to scan over his notes, but his writings on Hannibal are more or less angry scribbles about uncooperative behavior and ideas for inclusions for his book. Occasional quotes from Hannibal are written down so that they may take them out of context for his book. He looks up, adjusts his eyes to the inmate sitting across from him. “I hear that you are planning to plead insanity in court?” A smirk starts to wash over Frederick’s face as he continues speaking. “That is never going to work, Hannibal. You are forgetting that I am a witness to my own framing, yes? No insane man could have put in the kind of effort _you_ did to ensure my near incarceration. The same thing is, presumably, to be said of Will Graham. The only change being that he _was_ incarcerated, of course.”

Hannibal’s demeanor remains the same as he quickly calculates his response. “How hypocritical of you, Frederick. The word ‘insane’ is itself a piece of the title of the hospital. If I am not found insane, you most likely won’t be able to keep me under this roof. Or are you so busy referring to it as _your_ hospital that you have forgotten the legal state name of this building?”

“You are and always have been the most sane man imaginable, Hannibal,” Frederick sneers, the tip of his pen tickling his chin as he slides it back and forth along his jaw. “That is why you were so difficult to catch.” The pen slips between his lips as he talks, the metallic taste familiar on his tongue as the pen clicks against his teeth. The habit is not one he has ever tried to break.

“Ah, and you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Hannibal is smiling now. “You, the man so wrapped up in catching the Ripper that you were blind to reality.” He stops talking for a moment and gestures to Frederick’s face. “Ironic really, your blind eye.”

Frederick ponders for a second how Hannibal knows about his eye—he didn’t forget to put the contact in, did he? Then he remembers: Freddie Lounds wrote an article after the gunshot about the mistake in Frederick’s arrest, including details from the hospital about his condition that she should not have had access to. While Frederick would normally have loved the attention received due to an article about him, he is not too keen on the fact that it stemmed from that woman and her not-so-well-reputed tabloid blog. Frederick believes that fame should come from success (even if it is not well founded or deserved, so long as nobody realizes this), not from articles that lie (and not in what Frederick would consider the good way of lying). Additionally, Freddie dug up copious amounts of research and contacted Frederick’s former college peers in order to write about the failures in his past that he has exonerated from his own mind and has not mentioned nor thought about in years. That Tattle Crime article is yet another blemish that Frederick is seeking to cancel out by publishing his book. His reputation that he had worked so hard to achieve is still stained murky not only from that article but from the newspaper headlines and news segments detailing his arrest. Even though Jack Crawford set the stories straight after Frederick got shot, the psychiatrist does not necessarily believe that everyone has forgotten about the mistake, even if the whole world now knows for sure that Hannibal is the real Ripper.

Not wanting the conversation with Hannibal to dip into the water of those topics, Frederick changes the subject. “You’re never going to get away with the insanity plea,” he tells Hannibal, standing up and approaching the therapy cage slightly. “I am sure of that.”

“And you’ll never sell more than 5,000 copies of your book once people realize it is as self-heightening as you are yourself,” Hannibal replies as a taunt.

Frederick stares at him, mouth twisting, sharp features twisted into hate.

“What happened to your cane, Frederick?” Hannibal asks, making a pointed glance at the man’s hand. “Was that survival story simply overtaken by the new one? Truly, I’m surprised you don’t still have it. It’s not like you to undermine all possible theatrics. A blind cripple with dentures and a nasty scar, in charge of the most dangerous killer in the past three decades? Now that’s a sure way for you to get the full amount of attention you seek.”

He glares at him, prickling, trying to decide what to do. “Orderlies!” Frederick calls, voice somewhere between a raise and a yell. “Take Dr. Lecter back to his cell. That’s enough for today.”

It’s not that Hannibal has gotten the best of Frederick. Oh no, he hasn’t, and even if he had, Frederick would never have admitted it. Yes, these failed therapy sessions do tend to piss off the administrator and quite often end with his frustration, but it is not from lack of trying. He is no longer in the mood to fish for details from Hannibal. He would rather gloat over his own self.

Frederick returns to his office and reclines on the soft leather couch, a glass of whiskey in hand. He’s calm now, the ordeal with Hannibal pushed to the back of his mind. He does not ponder the insults further. Instead, he opens his laptop and stares for a moment at the draft of _Hannibal the Cannibal_ , glancing over what he has written.

Frederick considers himself to be a good writer. Frederick considers himself to be good at a lot of things.

Frederick has thirteen chapters completed so far. He is aiming for fifteen. The publisher he has been in contact with (it’s a smaller organization focused on nonfiction crime books; the publication of a sure seller like Frederick’s will help them receive acclaim, but they will still allow Frederick the credit and most of the royalties) wants the final draft within the upcoming week.

He scrolls to the introduction. “ _Hannibal Lecter is my greatest achievement_ ,” it reads. Frederick smirks to himself. The future, as it is perceived in his mind, is bright as day, with large amounts of money and success. Of course, he will not be known just as an author—he will be known as the man in charge of Hannibal Lecter, keeping the world safe from this dangerous monster. He does not believe that there is any shortage of possibilities when it comes to even further acclaim and fame after the publication of the book. He does not expect anything different or anything less.


	3. A Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I may be having a little bit too much fun while I build up to the theory I wrote this fic to explore.

It has been two years since Dr. Hannibal Lecter was first locked up in the basement of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. In that time, the color of his prison jumpsuit may have faded, but his spirits have not experienced the same deterioration. He remains the same suave, cynical, calm man he has always been. At his trial, he plead insanity and, much to the genuine surprised disgust of Frederick Chilton, was granted the status of having this condition as recognized by the state law. Frederick still intends to write a nasty letter to that judge, whom he swears was on some sort of drug during the trial. Now that Hannibal is stuck in the asylum for good, things remain stagnantly interesting as always at the prison.

As much as Frederick hates to admit it, the sales of _Hannibal the Cannibal_ are declining and have been for some time. After publication, he was initially awarded the positive reviews and press he had been desiring. This did nothing for his ego, making the employees of the hospital complain even more than usual about his intolerable behavior. However, after a couple of months, customers stopped buying the book. Now Frederick is attempting to do anything in his power to make the sales of his text go back up. He calls the publishing company every couple of weeks and urges them to make a boost in publication and to distribute them everywhere possible. He posts anonymous comments praising his own book on various websites, hoping that these comments will spark the interest of others.   

He even wonders if a film company would want to use the story. He would lend them the rights so long as said film is based entirely on his book (for further fame and sales, of course) and that he is, at the very least, a screenwriter and consulting producer. Frederick does not know anything technical about movies, but this does not stop him from considering the option. Serial killer films are very popular these days. He feels that Hannibal Lecter would make an excellent horror film antagonist (and, of course, that he himself would be quite an excellent character).

Frederick never expected to achieve success from the media, and the idea admittedly took a while for him to get used to. He would much rather have gotten praise for himself and his academic prowess, but the one redeeming grace with writing is that people are reading words that have come right out of his head. He figures that it may not necessarily matter where the attention comes from or why, so long as people are appreciating and paying attention to him. He has wanted it to be this way his whole life, and now that he has experienced a taste of it, he cannot fathom the possibility of losing it due to failing profits.

The facts regarding _why_ the sales have slipped so drastically are based upon a number of possibilities. Firstly, there is the reality that Hannibal Lecter is now old news. Even though the legend and stories of the Chesapeake Ripper are sure to stick around for some time, the tabloids are no longer interested in him, and thus neither is the public. When the book was first published, people were flocking to know the story, as well as stocking up on articles from newspapers and online blogs. Everyone was so interested to get into the mind of Hannibal Lecter. Now there are other killers and other stories. 

Secondly, there have been many rumors regarding the lies that Frederick included in his book. While no direct lawsuits or accusations have been made, Frederick is aware of their existence. By nature, Frederick Chilton is not a worrier. He worries only in the most extreme of situations. However, he knows that if word gets out and his lies are exposed, he will lose everything. Not only will the royalties and profits made by the book be seized from him, but he will be denied his reputation. His name will be trashed and dragged through the mud. He will be repainted as an untrustworthy man, and he is not positive that there would be a way out of such a situation. His reputation is the main thing he cares about, and he cannot imagine living a life where it has fallen so drastically. Thus, he tries to stay on his toes as best he can in order to prevent such a feat from becoming reality.

Speaking of the media’s disinterest in Hannibal, Frederick has picked up on the news of the rising serial killer who has taken the place as the darling of the tabloids. Frederick avoids tabloid articles when they prey upon him, but he cannot deny that they are a useful source of semi-accurate information, especially when it comes to speculation. Speculation is something Frederick is all too familiar with. Every time Frederick reads about this killer, the “Tooth Fairy” as he is called, his curiosity and imagination are both motivated.

He admits that it is not so much this new killer himself who interests him; rather, it is the idea of the press’s shift in focus. Frederick would never confess it, but he is jealous that small media sources are getting so much attention from writing about this new man. If Frederick can glean enough information about him, perhaps he could write several pieces and shift some of the focus back onto himself. God knows he needs a spike in fame as an author. He has considered starting an online blog regarding the BSHCI, its prisoners, and himself, but he figures that this is too tacky of a way to earn success. Even though he is a published author and a well-known psychiatrist and administrator (in Maryland at least), he cannot handle the thought of being mistaken for nothing but a blogger.

Additionally, despite Frederick’s very clear instructions not to do such a thing, one of the orderlies gave Dr. Lecter a copy of _Hannibal the Cannibal_. It isn’t that Frederick didn’t want Hannibal to know what he wrote; rather, Frederick did not want a recitation of his lies, which is exactly what has happened every time the two have had a therapy session since the book was released. Hannibal quite enjoys throwing Frederick’s quotes back in his face, particularly the ones that are not as true as Frederick pretends they are.

If he is being truly honest, Frederick does not always think that Hannibal is ever going to cooperate with him. No matter how many therapy sessions they have, no matter how many needles he drives into Hannibal’s hands, no matter the extent of conversations the two engage in, Frederick does not think anything will ever change, even after time. This does not, of course, mean that Frederick will give up. Hannibal is spending the rest of his life in his cell, that is for certain. Frederick knows that he is doing the best he can, and that with constant reminder, he starts to believe that maybe Hannibal will cooperate eventually.

One Wednesday afternoon, Frederick is reclined in his desk chair, perusing online reviews for _Hannibal the Cannibal_ on his iPad. Only two new reviews have been posted since last month (aside from one of Frederick’s doting anonymous comments), and they are both about Hannibal Lecter himself rather than Frederick and his writing. Frederick snorts and tosses his head upon reading them.

There is a soft knock on his door, and Frederick looks up to see Alana Bloom letting herself into his office. He stands up immediately, a defensive gesture rather than a welcoming one.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps. He does not appreciate having other people in his office. It is _his_ office, after all.

“It’s nice to see you too, Frederick,” she says in that Alana Bloom way she has of keeping a hardened attitude hidden behind a soft-spoken demeanor. Her hair is tied up now, as she has been doing ever since her stint in the hospital. Conversations between Alana and Frederick are always difficult because they both know how to push each other’s buttons. One or both of them usually ends up aggravated, although they have both gotten decent at hiding it from each other.

Frederick tilts his head. He has not seated himself back down, and is instead glaring at her levelly. He wants to keep himself positioned above her, as is his habit with anyone, but particularly with people who are also doctors in psychiatry. “Dr. Bloom. Or is it Dr. Verger now? Dr. Bloom-Verger? Sounds like a car company.”

Alana purses her cherry red lips, taking the seat in front of Frederick’s desk. Frederick sits down a moment later, taking notice of the way she sits a bit gingerly, from her fall all those years ago or because of her more recent childbirth, Frederick is not sure. She clasps her hands together on her lap before speaking. “I am already an established psychiatrist, in case you have forgotten. It would be a bad business move to change my name. Besides, Margot’s last name precedes her. You know that.”

“How is motherhood treating you, then?” Frederick asks, a smirk playing on his face. “You do not seem quite the motherly type, at least not anymore. Not this new Alana Bloom, this blood-red lipstick, business suit-wearing, assistant murderer in the death of her girlfriend’s brother. That story was true, I take it?” 

“‘Motherly?’ Oh no, Frederick,” Alana eyes him warily, retreating back to his original comment. “I know that’s not the term you prefer to describe me. What was it you called me in your book? ‘That bisexual vixen, the seemingly sweet seductress’?”

“As I have said many a time,” Frederick starts, raising a hand. “You, Dr. Bloom, are catnip for killers. Although Margot Verger was not yet a killer when you two first met. You helped make her one, or so I hear.”

“I didn’t come here for a lecture, Frederick. I’m not one of your Word documents you can dote to endlessly,” the vexation shows in Alana’s face now. She does not get upset easily, but he can tell by the narrowing of her eyes that she is bothered by his words.

“Then why did you come here?” Frederick plays back, leaning over the desk to stare down at her.

“I came to talk about your ‘greatest achievement,’” she says airily, quoting again from _Hannibal the Cannibal_.

“So you _did_ read my book,” Frederick raises his eyebrows, more interested now. “I was considering the possibility that you had only read the part concerning yourself—”

“That’s something you would do, not me,” Alana interjects, earning a glare from Frederick. She continues before he can say anything else. “Well, it was more difficult to get through than a Tattle Crime article, what with your little self-compliments dancing on every page. But yes, I did read it.” She is silent for a moment, watching Frederick play with the gold ring on his right hand. “You should be careful writing so many lies on paper, Frederick. You never know who might discover the truth. Or, more accurately, who might tell the truth.”

Frederick looks up at her, face solemn. “Dr. Bloom, I know that some people do not consider me to be as well-educated and advanced as I am—” Alana coughs at this notion, or at least fakes one. It is hard to tell. Frederick gives her a pointed glare before continuing. “But you’re forgetting that all of the people I lied about are quite advanced in lying themselves.”

“All I’m saying is that you should have had a little foresight, Frederick,” Alana sighs.

Frederick scoffs. “I’m not the one who slept with a killer and was so infatuated by him that I could not see him for what he really was. Which, by the way, was the killer the FBI had been looking for for two years.”

“But you’re the one who ended up partially blind,” Alana points out. “It’s not for lack of irony. You refused to believe it was Hannibal too, as I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”

Frederick fumes at this. Does every person have to turn his eye into a goddamn metaphor? He does not speak for a moment, and instead taps his fingers on his desk several times. He decides to change the subject. “Why do you want to talk to Hannibal, Alana? I still do not allow him visitors. You know that.”

“I said I came here to talk _about_ him, not _to_ him, Frederick,” Alana corrects. “Although one day you’re going to have to loosen the reigns a bit. If you give him no privileges, then he hits rock bottom now and there is nothing else to punish him for.”

“This is an asylum, not a hotel,” Frederick does not like where this conversation is going. “Besides that, I am in charge of him, not you. He is my patient.”

The corners of Alana’s mouth twitch as if she is preparing to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands up, putting an early end to the conversation. She watches with amusement as Frederick rises to his feet immediately as well. 

“Variation is key, Frederick,” she says softly before turning and striding out the door, leaving Frederick to sit and passive-aggressively chew on his pen, mind grasping the entirety of the conversation that has just occurred. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, while waiting for the next chapters to hear theories on how the administrative switch took place, do you want my non-canonical theory? Honestly, I think it was done because Caroline is a regular on the show whereas Raúl is a special guest and constantly busy filming SVU. My guess is that they wanted the administrator to have a big role in season three, but (unfortunately and disappointingly) they had to take it from Chilton and give it to Alana because Raúl didn't have the time to film as much as they needed him to.
> 
> But even with that being said, I do have some interesting theories about how it may have happened in the fiction of the show itself, so thank you for reading. There is more to come soon!


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